


Acorns and Oakenshields

by Avelera



Series: Bagginshield Drabbles [1]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bilbo Remains In Erebor, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Shire, Drabble Collection, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-03
Updated: 2015-08-19
Packaged: 2018-03-21 00:56:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 28
Words: 18,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3671586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avelera/pseuds/Avelera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My collection of Bagginshield Tumblr drabble prompts too short to be posted as their own fics. </p><p>1 "Perfectly respectable" is a title far more fearsome than Thorin could have anticipated.<br/>2 Bagginshield kid!fic.<br/>3 Bilbo accidentally adopts a warg pup.<br/>4 Cultural differences, or in which elevensies is not nearly as appealing as it sounds.<br/>5 Thorin realizes that Bilbo is touch starved, and sets out to fix that.<br/>6 Thorin tries ice cream for the first time.<br/>7 Bilbo kills Azog at the Battle of Five Armies, but he and Thorin still have not worked out the problem of the Arkenstone.<br/>8 Bagginshield high school teacher AU, carpooling.<br/>9 Thorin tries to impress the cute botanist that just moved in next door.<br/>10 Thorin braids Bilbo's hair, and it goes about as well as one would expect.<br/>11 Erebor is reclaimed, only to fall to the invading orcs.<br/>12 Bilbo leads Thorin home.<br/>13 Thorin can't seem to stop walking in on his nephews in compromising positions with their significant others.<br/>14 Dwalin dubs himself Protector of the Burglar's Virtue.<br/>15 LARP Bagginshield.<br/>16 Thorin and Bilbo take stock of the damage to Erebor.</p><p>And many more!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Perfectly Respectable

**Author's Note:**

> After writing some over a dozen short Bagginshield ficlets to Tumblr it seemed about time that I archive them somewhere. I do hope you enjoy!
> 
>  
> 
> **Please no prompts in the comment section. Come visit me on Tumblr to submit your prompts for consideration. (URL: Avelera)**

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For perkynerples - Well-placed Shire diplomacy is a far more powerful weapon than anyone could have anticipated.

What the dwarves did not understand was that “perfectly respectable” is actually a title of some note in the Shire, and not one given idly. In truth, it is far more fearsome than “Bullroarer”, for it requires quite a bit more work than simply being tall and slaying a few goblins on the battlefield. 

To be “ _perfectly_  respectable”? To never have a single social faux pas, to not have had  _one_  dinner party gone awry, to serve tea at  _exactly_ the same time every day, remember the family trees to the tenth degree of all your acquaintances  _after having just met them_? To never need to ask a name twice, or stepped on a single toe while dancing? That requires a level of political acumen that is truly terrifying to behold, and Bilbo was held in fearful awe by the other Shire folk as a result of it. None dared cross him except the equally formidable Lobelia, and their duels were the stuff of legend. 

It was said that Bilbo could ruin a hobbit’s reputation  _for life_  simply by pausing before he said “thank you.” That he once ended a twenty year blood feud and had the heirs to both families married before the end of the month  _simply by inviting one of their aunts over for tea_. That the only reason he did so was because the feud meant he once had to take the long way ‘round the market, for to do otherwise would be to accidentally ally oneself with one side or the other in the complicated and byzantine world of Shire favoritism. 

This began to dawn on Thorin slowly over time, as with a few well-planned dinner parties, Bilbo had resolved centuries of tension between Mirkwood and Erebor. Most baffling of all, at some point Thorin agreed that Kili and Tauriel could be wed to seal the alliance  _and he didn't remember saying yes_. 

One day, he finally worked up the interest (certainly it wasn't the courage) to confront Bilbo on this matter. Respectfully, of course, because Thorin had begun to realize that there’s politics, played by lesser mortals for such trivial things as kingdoms and gold, and then there was  _this_. 

"Well someone had to do it," Bilbo said, without looking up from the thank-you cards he was writing in perfect flowing Sindarin to the Elvenking for coming around to tea at his request the month before. "These are trifles, my dear, don’t worry your head about it. I will let you know if anything truly difficult comes up."


	2. Day Care

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt:  
> riverchant asked: Oh my god how about a Bagginshield kid fic set in a world where hobbits and dwarfs live close by, with baby Bilbo and Thorin meeting each other for the first time. Oh and both of them are like mini versions of their fathers. Bilbo is this tiny squisable gentlehobbit and Thorin is a serious and brooding little princeling.

The thing about hobbits and dwarves is that putting them together at all, much less when they’re tiny and fragile and breakable, is a lesson in having an interesting morning. Both races share a love of food, enjoy fine and beautiful things (mostly clothes for hobbits and armor for dwarves). They are the shortest of the races and roughly of a size to get along comfortably, just like Men and Elves do for one another. 

All these similarities can lead to unusually fast friendships. Or they can lead to explosions. 

In this case, it seemed as if baby Bilbo and Thorin had not yet figured out which one it would be. They sat across from one another, Thorin assessing with a remarkably hawk-like expression for an infant that hadn’t even grown into the bird-like nose of his family, and Bilbo with a surprising amount of grouch for a child that had already had three meals and a long nap that day. 

"Are you sure this is wise, Gandalf?" Thrain said to the owner of Grey’s Daycare. 

"Bilbo can handle himself well enough," Belladonna said, cutting off Gandalf. The three friends stood side by side, chatting with one another, and they’d barely taken their eyes off the children for a moment when they heard it. . 

There was a high-pitched wail, and all turned expecting to see a bruised Bilbo and a triumphant Thorin. Instead they saw Bilbo marveling at one of Thorin’s toys, a shiny bauble of some sort popular amongst dwarven children, while the dwarf in question turned red faced from crying at the sight. 

"Thorin is a very sensitive soul," Thrain said helplessly as Belladonna huffed a sigh and went over to retrieve her child. 


	3. Snowy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> aspoopybettafisch prompted: Bilbo finds a warg/wolf puppy mix abandoned in the woods GO! :D

It was perfectly tame once he offered it a scrap of meat, and within an hour Bilbo was back at Bag End with the puppy gnawing a bone on the floor. Puppy may have been the wrong word, it was half as big as him and dogs generally tended to run small in the Shire. Must have come from Bree then, or one of the other settlements of Men nearby, and no doubt would tower over him once fully grown. Still as a puppy even Bilbo could not argue that it was cute, with one lopsided floppy ear, its white coat sticking out in all directions.

He’d curled up in his armchair, quite content to wile away the rest of the day reading after his long walk when he heard the door close. Thorin returned home from the forge early, though he generally only went as a hobby so his hours were irregular. Bilbo thought nothing of it until he heard the sound of something heavy clattering to the floor.

"What," Thorin said, pale-faced and pointing with one shaking finger at the puppy at the floor, "is a warg pup doing in our house?"

Bilbo glanced at the puppy. All right, perhaps there was some resemblance, the ridge of the nose, the fluff of the tail and, oh dear… He looked back to Thorin. So did the pup.

"I was thinking of calling him Snowy?"


	4. Second Breakfast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> superkim111 prompted: Uh…uh… cultural differences!?!

Their long journey was behind them, the bags unpacked and put away, and finally Bilbo and Thorin could enjoy the first day of their “retirement” to the Shire. It was amazing what an angry dwarf lord could do to when it came to reclaiming stolen furniture, and they’d settled in early once everything quite miraculously appeared back in its proper place.

After that it was a pleasant evening spent bathing to wash off the dust of the road (together, of all the scandalous things, Bilbo thought with a blush) and going to bed early too (also together, but he was too pleased by that turn to blush over it). 

The first misunderstanding began at breakfast, which Bilbo liked to take promptly at six o'clock, while Thorin groaned and dragged a pillow over his head. 

"Bilbo, we are not on the road and our lives are no longer in danger, so why in Durin’s name are you up at such a wretched hour?" 

"Breakfast," Bilbo replied, wrenching the blankets off the bed for good measure, leaving Thorin shivering on the mattress. "Now hurry up or you’ll miss the morning."

"The sun hasn't yet risen!"

Eventually he dragged Thorin from bed though, and got him sitting (more like drooping) bleary-eyed at the breakfast table, listlessly picking at his porridge. His own day properly begun, Bilbo went to the garden, humming to himself as he picked over the worst of the weeds, and by the time he came back Thorin had washed his plate and looked a little more awake. He was currently in the livingroom, glancing over Bilbo’s books with mild, if sleepy, interest. 

"Just give me a moment to wash up and I’ll get breakfast going," Bilbo said, wiping the sheen of sweat off his forehead. Hamfast had done well enough while he was away, but it still felt good to do a bit of his own gardening and he looked forward to scrubbing off the dirt and sweat. 

Thorin stared. “Did we not just have it?” 

"First breakfast, certainly," Bilbo said. "I’ve got some jam preserves here, they’ll go lovely with the scones and tea." 

Thorin eyed him warily, but in short order was seated with Bilbo at the table, eating with slightly more appreciation than his dazed attempt at the porridge. Yet as he chewed he kept watching Bilbo, to the point where Bilbo was beginning to feel unsettled. 

"Well," Bilbo hazarded, making shorter work of second breakfast than he usually preferred, but the staring was getting to be a bit much, "I’m off to market. I should be able to find something special for elevensies, you just make yourself comfortable. Goodness knows you’ve earned a bit of rest."

Thorin froze with the last bite of a scone half way to his lips. He glanced at the clock, which currently read nine. “Am I to assume that elevensies takes place at eleven?”

"Naturally," Bilbo said blinking. Had Thorin hit his head when he got out of bed that morning?

"And might I also assume, based on your incessant complaining over the lack of lunch on our journey, that another meal follows that?" Thorin was beginning to look a bit green. 

"Of course, now that we’re home we can finally enjoy a decent meal schedule!" Bilbo said in a huff, feeling as if he were talking to a child. 

"Exactly how many of these meals am I to expect?" Thorin said, and from any hobbit this would be a sentence stated with relish, but strangely Thorin looked apprehensive at the thought. 

"Well we’ve had breakfast, and second breakfast, which leaves elevensies as I said, luncheon, afternoon tea, dinner, and supper. Oh, and a midnight snack, should we stay up that late," Bilbo was feeling quite bold to add a lascivious eyebrow wiggle to the last one, but at each word Thorin’s mouth dropped further. 

” _Seven meals in a day_?” Thorin exclaimed, looking ill. 

"I know we had less on the journey, but with those circumstances behind us we can finally…Thorin, Thorin? Where are you going?" 

"Back to sleep," Thorin called over his shoulder, and Bilbo just overheard some muttering about hobbits and bottomless pits before the door closed behind the dwarf and he was left sitting in his kitchen in utter bewilderment.


	5. Touch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt:  
> stitchedopen asked: So Bilbo is like this confirmed bachelor, right? So he probably spends a lot of time alone. So when Thorin hugs him on the carrock, he realizes he's been super touch starved and he actually really likes being touched. So he starts subtly trying to get the dwarves to touch him, by like brushing against them or touching their shoulders or something. And Thorin realizes what's going on so he's like 'get inside this fur coat, burglar' and he cuddles him so hard.

An odd thing happens when Thorin reaches out to drag Bilbo close upon the Carrock. 

First, the hobbit stiffens in his arms. This, Thorin will later admit, was understandable given his harsh words and harsher treatment of Bilbo up to that point. It is not the stiffness that bothers him, or even the awkward pat Bilbo taps onto Thorin’s shoulder. It is a brief second, just before Thorin pulls away at the sight of the mountain, when Bilbo melts against him.

For just the barest moment, Bilbo is yielding in his arms, his embrace tightening in return as if loathe to let go. It is so small that Thorin only notices it as a light touch at the back of his subconscious.

It is the other instances where that touch grows into an insistent nagging feeling, waiting to be examined. Bilbo is always hesitant to touch or be touched by the others, but just for a split second before they break away he leans in, and that malleable expression of his with its swiftly flitting emotions softens and he sags before seeming to wake, and jerk himself away. 

Thorin observes this to Balin one night, along with a pointed look and an arched eyebrow. No more need be said, and from that moment on the dwarves crowd close to Bilbo around the fire, sitting shoulder to shoulder. They place their bedrolls near his and it is not unusual to see Bilbo awake with an arm slung over him from one of the company. At first the hobbit seems flustered by this turn, but his complaints are minimal and quickly taper off entirely, and he seems to enjoy their touches with a sort of fond exasperation.

It does not seem enough though. Bilbo still holds himself stiff and Thorin now sees the moments where he begins to reach out to the others, only to pull himself back with a self-deprecating shake of his head.

It firms Thorin’s resolve, but the moment is lost in the tangle of madness, in the gold and battle and the many months it takes him to recover from his wounds. Throughout all of that Bilbo stays, but he does not touch, save for the moment where he had clutched at Thorin’s hand, fearing each breath would be his last while waiting for Gandalf to come.

Bilbo stayed throughout it all, rarely touching since, but never leaving. He would swallow and look away when caught gazing at Thorin, and it never seemed the proper time to inquire as to why. There was too much else yet unsaid: like how Thorin had kept Bilbo close even in the depths of his madness, as if some part of him remembered the promise to himself to bridge that gap between Bilbo and the touch of others, but that had been something more as well. And that something more caught in his throat, clogging it with the fear that Bilbo would decide Thorin and his nephews were well enough now, and take his leave, and Thorin knew not how to stop him except to beg.

It turned out that both of those questions had the same answer, one night nearly a year later as autumn dimmed to winter. Bilbo stood beside him on the wall looking out to Dale, pipe smoke curling around his head. He and Thorin would often come here, to talk of everything and nothing, those inconsequential pleasantries that filled the air between them but seemed to never say what waited at the tip of Thorin’s tongue.

Bilbo shivers as the breeze kicked up, carrying in it the icy promise of the cold that came early in these northern climes and Thorin does not think, only wraps his cloak around Bilbo, and brings him close.

Bilbo stills, but did not stiffen or pull away this time. The heavy wool cloak now filled with their combined body heat makes a perfect shield against the chill and Thorin shifts Bilbo closer, wrapping a second arm around him and placing his chin on Bilbo’s curls.

“Well,” Bilbo says softly, “why didn’t you say so sooner?”

Thorin hums a sound that could be acknowledgement or agreement and feels Bilbo finally relax against him. Beneath the folds of the cloak, their hands meet and clasp and they stay there in silence while dusk melted into evening, and again after that for many evenings to come. 


	6. Ice Cream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> whereisfili prompted: ice cream

"This," Thorin pronounced with all the solemnity of a king at his cornation, "is the most amazing meal I have ever tasted."

Bilbo squirmed a little, pleased but slightly embarrassed. There was not a trace of irony in Thorin’s words, and the level of sincerity was a  overwhelming considering it was just ice cream, a common enough treat on hot summer days in the Shire, which Thorin now looked at as if Bilbo had presented him with some treasure that… well, no, not even treasure, because that was hardly something Thorin would be impressed with these days, and therein lay the problem. Thorin looked worshipful. He looked  _transported_. Bilbo was very afraid that if this continued, Thorin would not let him prepare another meal again. 

"Err, I was going to say, that if you didn’t like the vanilla we could try another flavor next time," he said, tapping the tips of his fingers together. He’d already prepared the words, certain something as sweet and unthreatening as vanilla ice cream could never hold Thorin’s interest, but now he felt as if he were about to create a monster. "It’s lovely with a bit of strawberries mixed in, or blueberries. Later in the summer, once the blackberries are out—" 

Thorin’s head jerked up and he stared at Bilbo intently, voice lowering to a register that Bilbo had once only associated with the most dire threats. “It comes in blackberry?”

Bilbo nodded apprehensively, and those blue eyes bored into him. Thorin considered this for a long, uncomfortable moment. The vanilla ice cream before Thorin was gone. Bilbo hadn’t even seen where it went. He was afraid if he looked down he’d discover his own bowl was empty as well, as Thorin developed some terrifying preternatural reflex in the presence of sugar. 

Thorin brow furrowed as he considered this, and Bilbo reacted on instinct, grabbing his bowl and pulling it out of immediate reach. He did so very quickly, lest Thorin decide his fingers were equally appealing. 

"Then that is what we will try next," Thorin said, gaze intent, and Bilbo was too unsettled to contradict him.  


	7. Resolutions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt:  
> kurosmind asked: ìBagginshield, maybe still not established (they're pining so much), BoFA. the last orcs have been driven away and the Battle is ended, Thorin is wounded but he doesn't fall in the battle, Bilbo doesn't get knocked out or he wakes up only a few minutes later. They find each other on the battlefield, Bilbo is glad to see the dwarves are all fine but he's worried for what Thorin will do; Thorin is relieved beyond measure B is alright but afraid of what he thinks of him now after what he did to him
> 
> Written pre-BotFA release

Azog’s blade rose above Thorin’s head, and he knew in that manner that all trained warriors do, that he would not be able to bring up his sword in time to block it. Time slowed and Thorin’s mind went white as the mace grew in his vision. His muscles were clenched to drive him out of his path, his arms rising to bring Orcrist overhead, all in vain. Once he would have thought it would make him angry, to know that Azog’s vow to end the line of Durin was the only one in this world that Fate would fulfill, but instead he only felt curiously blank. Accepting. This was the end of their long road to ruin, begun by his grandfather, and ending in his own madness and greed. Had he only been better, stronger, more aware of his own flaws, he might have avoided this. But of course, he had not.

So he was not expect the bloom of red on the scarred plains of Azog’s chest, the Pale Orc’s face went slack as it looked down and saw a glowing blue blade emerging from between his ribs.

It should have perhaps been more than it was, but the great orc that had pursued them so far and so viciously did not flail in his injuries. He did not struggle, or lash out in his death throes. A look of what could only be called confusion twitched over his face and just as suddenly it was over, the blue eyes rolling back into his head as his knees gave way beneath and he collapsed to the ground, the mace falling to his side just inches from where Thorin stood.

There was no one behind him.

Thorin blinked, shaking his head as he struggled to free his mind from the paralysis that had gripped it in the face of his certain death. Bilbo’s little sword was there, jutting from Azog’s back, but the tide of battle had shifted and there was no one else on the hilltop. All the orcs had given it wide berth when they saw their commander hunting down the dwarf he had sworn to kill, and the rest of the fighting was far away. Thorin stared, astonished, at the empty air when suddenly it was not so empty.

“You saved my life,” Thorin said dumbly.

“You’re welcome,” Bilbo said. His voice was hoarse, and blood stained his blue coat. He seemed very small then, and lost, his bare toes nudged the dirt and he looked down as if unable to meet Thorin’s eye.

Thorin’s breath caught. “How did you—?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Bilbo said. “I just… couldn’t let it happen. I’m sorry. I’ll go now.”

Bilbo turned away, then paused, looking out to the battle. It still raged, but the orcs were in retreat. Something steely entered Bilbo’s eyes at the sight, and he walked over to Azog’s body, wrapping his fingers around the sword’s hilt and in a few tugs managed to drag the blade from the corpse. Bilbo frowned, and with a fussy little gesture of frustration he bent to wipe the blade on a ragged piece of cloth that emerged from the edges of Azog’s armor. His nose wrinkled in disgust, but once cleaned he sheathed the weapon and began to walk away.

“Stop.”

Bilbo drew up short, but seemed frozen. He did not turn around as Thorin continued. “Tell me this: why did you steal it?”

Bilbo’s shoulders rose and fell as he took a deep shuddering breath. “You swore to Lake-town that they would share in the vast wealth of Erebor, and never before did they need it as much as when they were starving at your doorstep. The Thorin Oakenshield I know would never turn away those who had lost their home. I know your honor is as important to you as your life, Thorin, and I would lay down my own before I see you lose them. I’m sorry. I realize now it was not my decision to make, but still I would not change it.”

Bilbo started when Thorin’s hand closed around his shoulder, turning him around. He flinched as if expecting a blow.

“If what you say is true,” Thorin said, “Then there can be no forgiveness for what I have done to you.”

Bilbo puffed out a breath, eyebrows rising as he took in Thorin’s words. Processed them. Connected what Thorin was saying. “Poppycock. A simple ‘I’m sorry’ will suffice, just as I’m sorry for what I did to you.”

It was Thorin’s turn to blink. “So easily?”

“Of course you great nitwit, I was trying to save your life! I was  hoping… that is, I hope that we might still part as friends, at least, once this is done.” The hobbit’s momentary bluster had left him and once again he ducked his head, his toes digging into the dirt.

“Friends?” Thorin said. It was as if… as if a haze was clearing from his mind. That rage which had accompanied him since he entered Erebor was dissipating, as if the cold wind sweeping down over the slopes of the mountain was clearing his thoughts.

“I… well, at this point I can hardly expect anything more,” Bilbo said, staring  once again at the ground.

“Bilbo,” Thorin said, and saw the name electrify his burglar, who looked up just in time for Thorin to lean. Thorin’s hands traced the underside of Bilbo’s chin as he tilted his head up, capturing his lips. Bilbo stiffened against him, eyes flying wide, but as Thorin deepened the kiss, pressing the hobbit against him, Bilbo seemed to realize this was indeed really happening. Then his hands were up, tangling in Thorin’s hair, pressing against the back of Thorin’s neck and it was a good thing indeed that the battle had moved so far away because in that moment both of them were lost in each other.


	8. Running Late

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> diemarysues prompted: high school teacher au, carpooling

The horn blared for the tenth time and Bilbo felt fresh sweat prickle his forehead. “Keys, lesson plans, books, backpack,  _wallet_ , where is my wallet, oh no no no…”

"Bilbo!" Thorin called from the curb, leaning out the window of his car, tone not boding well for how much of his patience remained.

"In a moment!" Bilbo huffed, scrabbling through the drawer by the front door, where he kept most of his odds and ends and, usually, his wallet. 

"I have morning shop class to teach, if you don’t get over here this minute they will bash each other’s faces in with hammers. You think I’m joking but I’ve seen it!"

"Bother and confusticate…!" Bilbo swore, finally wrenching the drawer out and upending it on the floor, where no wallet was to be found and there simply wasn’t  _time_  to deal with the mess. “I can’t very well leave without my wallet!”

"I am giving you until the count of ten, and after that you are walking," Thorin warned and began counting down, which  _really_  did nothing for his state of mind. 

"It must be here somewhere!" Bilbo cried, pressing a hand to where his curls clung to his forehead now in sweaty ringlets. This was such a disaster, his shirt was already soaking through, he was an utter mess, and his car in the shop was just the last straw. He put a hand on his hip, heart racing as Thorin got to 3, when he felt it.

"It was in my pocket," Bilbo said as he pulled open the passenger side door of the car and took his seat next to Thorin. 

"I am not even going to dignify that with a response," Thorin muttered, shifting the car into drive. They were just rounding the end of the block when it hit Bilbo. Sweat, a stuffy nose from a threatening cold, how could he have forgotten? 

"Stop!" Bilbo said, and with an oath Thorin slammed on the breaks, wrenching them both forward. Thorin arm shot out in panic to stop Bilbo from falling forward. "We have to turn around!"

"Are you ok?" Thorin exclaimed, looking wildly at Bilbo. 

"I forgot my handkerchief."

Thorin stared, then without a word turned back to the road and started driving again. 


	9. Corncockle Blocked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> oberyns-testicle prompted: thorin finds a plant and asks the cute neighbor for some help?

"I wasn’t sure what to do with it," Thorin said casually, more casually than he felt as he held up the bouquet of admittedly pretty purple flowers. It was as good an excuse as any to get a conversation going with the new neighbor, and he affected an air of nonchalance. "I understand you have some knowledge in this area?"

The neighbor in question, Bilbo, looked at the flowers and then back at Thorin. “Where did you find those?”

"In my garden. Damn things grow like weeds, but they’re pretty enough so I’d hate to uproot them without a second opinion," Thorin said. "But if you like it, you’re welcome to keep these." It was working. Bilbo was looking in wonder down at the purple flowers, and all without Thorin overplaying his hand. He idly glanced at the bouquet, putting it to his nose to delicately sniff it, and looked over the petals at Bilbo. "I have plenty more."

"I should certainly hope not too many," Bilbo said, and was he looking a bit pale? Thorin had hoped for blushing. 

"At least another bouquet’s worth," Thorin said with an arched eyebrow and come on, if  _that_ didn’t work…

"Mr. Thrainsson, what you have there is a corncockle. It’s an extremely poisonous flower that we managed to eradicate from Britain until quite recently. If I were you, I’d wash my hands, call poison control, then do something about having a professional weed them out before someone gets killed."

Thorin froze, the flowers still in front of his face. “Oh. Yes, I’ll just… go do that now. Excuse me,” he said, and mustering what dignity he still possessed, ignoring the sudden acceleration of his heartbeat, he turned and walked back into the house. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Yes, corncockle is a real thing.](http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2693783/Deadly-British-plant-thought-extinct-discovered-lighthouse-Public-warned-not-touch-corn-cockle-kill.html)


	10. Braiding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> emsiecat prompted: Hmmm I always love the fluffy things so; Thorin giving Bilbo braids? Or perhaps a post PtBS drabble where there’s mutual healing going on or Thorin doing sweet little things for Bilbo to make him feel at home in Erebor?

At the first guffaw Bilbo’s expression morphed into a scowl. “It’s ridiculous, isn’t it?”

Thorin did not respond at first, but Bilbo knew his husband well enough to read the quiet wheezing noise from behind him as Thorin’s complete inability to control his own laughter. A funny fact that Bilbo hadn’t known before the mountain was reclaimed, but Thorin was in fact the most embarrassing dwarf in all existence when no longer weighted down by loss and duty. He would have thought someone would have the decency to warn him on this fact  _before_  they got married, but alas, the dwarves were in fact utter bastards in this regard.

“No. N-no, it is lovely,  _ghivashel_. It suits you—” Thorin could not even finish the sentence before his wheezing broke into a choking sound and Bilbo turned to see Thorin hunched over with his palm over his eyes, shaking with silent laughter.

“Oh for the love of—give me that!” Bilbo said, snatching the hand mirror from the tabletop. 

Two braids stuck out on either side of his head, more like twining string-bean vines than the dignified plaits fancied by the dwarves. He very slowly put down the mirror and leveled his gaze on Thorin,  who took one look at him before doubling over with a sound like he was dying.

“Perhaps your hair is too short for proper braids,” Thorin said, several minutes later, once he had regained his composure. Bilbo had graciously allowed him the time, as it gave him the chance to plan the varied and creative ways he was going to kill his husband. 


	11. Fallen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> hallsofstone2941 asked: Prompt for writing meme: bagginshield, sad ending - 3 sentences max
> 
> (I failed and made it 5 sentences)

Night fell, and for miles in every direction the sky burnt bright with the fires of Dale, as the orc armies put it to the torch.

Into the flames tossed the bodies of their fallen enemies: Men, Dwarves, and Elves, alike in death as the orc armies celebrated their victory, the taking of Erebor and Esgaroth.

Far to the West, atop a distant hill Bilbo and Thorin stood with what survivors had managed to escape the carnage, and he curled his fingers around Thorin’s as they stared down. Smoke poured from the holes the were-worms tunneled into the heart of Erebor- the great fortress of the dwarves fallen to the Shadow as had Gundabad, and Moria before.

Thorin’s hand was cold in his, his face pale and eyes hollow as the firelight flickered in his eyes, unable to turn away from the sight. 


	12. The Road Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> evil-bones-mccoy prompted: Bagginshield to “The Road Home” by Stephen Paulus

_As I wake from a dream_   
_In the gold of day,_   
_Through the air there’s a calling_   
_From far away,_   
_There’s a voice I can hear_   
_That will lead me home._

Thus passed Azog the Defiler, a pale form sinking beneath paler ice, and Thorin couldn’t move. Whether exhaustion of the battle, or the paralysis of disbelief, he only stared as Azog vanished from the world. Some part of him wondered if he should follow, to be sure the deed was done, but it was too distant and vague for action.

Eventually he did walk, clutching the crumbled stone as he followed the path out to the ruined tower overlooking Erebor. The armies were in rout, and so far above there was little he could do but watch as the orcs were driven off, crumbling with the loss of their leader.

It was the first time he had looked upon Erebor without the clash of battle in his ears, the first time since the illness sunk its hook into him. He knew not how long he stood there, except the sun was setting when a hand settled on his shoulder and he turned to see Bilbo there. A bruise was forming on his forehead, and when Thorin turned he gave a sigh of relief.

“We’ve been looking for you,” Bilbo said simply and when Thorin could only stare, silent and uncomprehending, Bilbo continued. “All of the others are out looking, except Fíli and Kíli in the healer’s tent. They would give us no peace until we found you. Are you all right?”

“It’s gone. It’s done,” Thorin said, breathless, his brow furrowed, unable to comprehend his own words. “He’s dead, and it’s over. It’s finally…”

Bilbo’s hand slid from his shoulder, clasping around Thorin’s fingers. They were chilled, and he had not realized it until he felt the warmth of Bilbo’s hand bleeding into his, and he stared at their entwined fingers.

“It is. I saw,” Bilbo said, then gripped Thorin’s hand tighter. “Now, let’s get you out of those wet things before you catch your death out here. You’re not hurt, are you?”

“I…” Thorin looked down. He did not know. The aches and pains of the battle were still lost in the rush of adrenaline, of fear, of relief so bright it was blinding.

“We’ll check for those too then. Come now, Thorin, let’s go. The others are waiting,” Bilbo said, giving a light tug at Thorin’s hand.

“Where are we going?” Thorin said, and blinked as bit by bit the warmth of Bilbo’s hand worked away at the edges of his delirium. 

Bilbo smiled at Thorin, perhaps more uncertain than genuine even with that relief shining in his eyes, and something put off for far too long clicked into place within him.

“Home.”


	13. Compromising Positions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> fae-of-the-rose prompted: two old loons walking in on nephews and their SOs and the awkward hilarity this entails

One would think in a palace as vast as Erebor it would be possible to avoid tripping over one’s relatives in compromising positions.

Thorin did what he could to turn a blind eye to his nephew cavorting with an elven maid, a task made easier by the fact Thranduil despised her which meant Thorin adored her instantly.

Still, fond as he was of Tauriel, and Kili, he really,  _really_  did not need to stumble across them in every nook, cranny, and hidden alcove of the palace. Especially with his nephews legs wrapped around her waist as she held him up to her level, kissing him furiously as she pinned his back up against the wall. 

Even that Thorin could put up with, despite the fact it was the third time that week already, except not ten feet down the hall he turned the corner and got an equally unwelcome glimpse of what a lovely young woman Sigrid had grown into, now in her 30s, and in an equally compromising position with his eldest nephew.

Fili’s eyes were closed as they kissed, his head tilted all the way back while Sigrid bent down. Her eyes, however, were not closed and they widened at the sight of Thorin.

He sighed, and simply waved her to continue as he kept walking, keeping the hand up to shield his gaze as he went resolutely to his quarters. 

"This is getting out of hand," Thorin groused later to Bilbo, even more annoyed that the hobbit  _still_  hadn’t stopped laughing at his expense, doubled over and wheezing at a situation that was clearly not funny. 

"Thorin, love, you are utterly overreacting, and you know we were just as bad. Give the lads a little slack," Bilbo said, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes.

Words that Thorin was all too delighted to bring up again, many years later, the first time Bilbo went running past him in Bag End, muttering something about his own nephew and a certain gardener’s son. 


	14. Protector of the Burglar's Virtue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> grimapparitions prompted: uhhh, Bagginshield, or maybe pre-Bagginshield. Dwalin is super protective of Bilbo and doesn't let Thorin near him because he 'knows what that bastard is thinking and there is no way he's getting near their adorable burglar and ruining him like he ruined everything when they were kids' Dwalin keeps thwarting all Thorins courting attempts. For some reason, Dwalin siding with Bilbo over Thorin always made me laugh forever. This is stupid and i'm sorry, heh heh
> 
> (Written pre-BotFA release)

The burglar had come puffing up the road and it was only through a supreme effort of will that Thorin didn’t stare longer than he already had. Something was warming in what could only be called his heart, and before he even noticed his own actions he was wheeling his pony around. Questions filled his mind. Why was the burglar here? What had changed his mind? If he didn’t wish to ride on his own, would he accept riding in front of Thorin—-

Only to be drawn short as a metal-sheathed hand closed around his pony’s reins, drawing them both short.

“Oh no ye don’t,” Dwalin said, his voice pitched to a low growl.

Thorin blinked, dragged free of his wonder at Bilbo’s arrival to stare at his friend. “Meaning?” Even as he watched the hobbit was scooped up onto the spare pony, dashing Thorin’s hopes.

“I know he’s yer type, Thorin, sure as daylight. Leave the bunny alone, ye’ve already frightened the life out of him.”

“Me?" Thorin scoffed, "If he is frightened of me he is certainly terrified of you,” Thorin said, gesturing to take in in Dwalin’s armor, the knuckle-dusters, tattoos, and other rather obvious advertisement that tangling with Dwalin was an excellent idea for anyone who was sick of the world. For Durin’s sake, even his tattoos stated ‘If you can read this, I’m punching you in the face.’

“It may be, but I’ve no interest in taking him to my bed. He’s a gentle sort, shouldn’t even be here, but as long as he is he’ll be needin’ someone to look out for him.”

“And you have volunteered for this position?” Thorin said, not sure if he was more startled or annoyed with his friend.

“Someone has to do it,” Dwalin said with a shrug. Then he gave Thorin’s pony a swat on the hindquarters that sent Thorin darting ahead, too surprised to even shout, so he could only remain silent and maintain the illusion the burst of speed had been on purpose. When he looked back Dwalin was behind him, firmly blocking Thorin from dropping any further back. With a muttered curse, Thorin turned back to leading the Company.

* * *

From that point on it was nearly impossible to exchange more than a word with the burglar without Dwalin appearing. It was uncanny, he was simply  _there_ , rising like a wall of fur and armor between them. Thorin was beginning to suspect that the hobbit thought he cared nothing for him for how little they had spoken, which only served to sharpen his frustration. He managed to steal a few moments in Rivendell, but then of course the poncy elf in charge had to go speaking of his family’s illness (which Thorin did  _not_  have) and ruining Thorin’s attempt to broach the subject to the hobbit.

(This may or may not have had something to do with his irritation later the next day when Bilbo nearly  _died_  falling off the path through the Misty Mountains. Perhaps he had been a bit too harsh snapping at the burglar, but Mahal damnit he was _worried_. And it was totally uncalled for later that night when Dwalin kicked him in the ribs,  _twice_ , walking about the cave searching for his own sleeping place.)

* * *

“We send the lightest first,” Thorin said. It was obvious,  _practical_. If Bilbo could not make it across (to safety, Thorin’s mind whispered traitorously) then none of them could. But when he turned Dwalin was behind him, arms folded and a low growl rumbling in his chest.

“If he goes first, then ye’re going next,” Dwalin rumbled.

* * *

Perhaps Thorin should be glad of his injuries from the battle, if they kept Dwalin from beating the living shit out of him.

“Ye will apologize to the burglar,” said Dwalin gravely and on no uncertain terms.

By all accounts, Thorin had narrowly survived the Battle of Five Armies as they were now calling it. But no amount of injuries could keep him from noticing one thing. “So I’m allowed to speak with him now?”

Dwalin snorted. “The little fellow’s been a wreck ever since we found you. If you don’t speak to him soon he’ll fret himself to death.”

“Very generous of you,” Thorin said dryly.

“Hmph,” Dwalin said, turning to leave. He was relieved that Thorin was alive, if the trace of tears reddening his eyes was any indication. Still, he hesitated by the tent flap before going out. “I suppose ye’re intentions have been proven honorable enough, but if ye scare either of us like that again I swear they’ll not find the body.”


	15. Oakenshield's Lament

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> fae-of-the-rose prompted: LARP Bagginshield

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those unaware, LARP refers to Live Action Role-Playing, basically Dungeons & Dragons style roleplaying where you dress up and fight as your character alongside others. The cast and plot team are often the "NPCs" who set up the world for the players, and a player may map out a character's story and play it out over several events alongside his or her friends.

There was an uncomfortable cough, a sniffle, and a general shuffling of feet as they stood by the water fountain afterwards. 

“I am alright, you know,” Thorin said, speaking first. 

“I’m perfectly aware,” Bilbo said shortly, though his voice was thick and he still could not meet Thorin’s eye. His face was flushed, his eyes puffy and the tear tracks still stood out on his cheeks despite the scrubbing he’d given them with the dirt-stained sleeve of his costume. 

“I only say this because you seemed distraught…”

“I know it wasn’t real, Thorin,” Bilbo snapped back, though the dignity of it was somewhat ruined by his sniffling. 

After a long, considering moment, Thorin reached over, and wrapped his arm around Bilbo’s shoulder, drawing him close. They were both filthy, covered in sweat and grime from a day spent running around the campsite, fighting until their arms felt heavy as iron bars, not even accounting for the emotional rollercoaster the plot team had dished out to them that weekend. 

It wasn’t real, but Bilbo still released a shuddering sigh and turned, burying his face against Thorin’s shoulder as he attempted to gather his composure. As he did he spoke, his words low and muffled against the leather of Thorin’s coat. “I know it, but something about seeing you lying there, covered in blood and gasping like that, like—like it was your last breath, and something happened and I just… it wasn’t a game anymore, and the thought of you actually dying and I could do nothing to stop it just…” The sniffling returned and he swallowed desperately to move air past the tightness in his throat. It was absurd, he never cried like this. 

“Bilbo, it was the end of Oakenshield’s plotline, we’ve been talking about this for years. Remember, we were going to retire the character, get the new plotline going next event…”

“That’s not it,” Bilbo said, and gave a little, self-deprecating laugh. “Or maybe it is. You’ve played Oakenshield for such a long time I guess I have trouble separating the two of you. You’ll always be my dwarf king.” He looked up through his tear-stained lashes, scrubbing at them once more before rising on tip-toes to give his husband a fierce kiss. “It’s been a good run, hasn’t it?”

“Yes, and now Burglar Baggins will return to his books and maps, forever pining for his lover lost in the battle…” Bilbo gave him a light punch in the arm for that one, but Thorin only smirked. “And next time is the Viking raider and the monk he sweeps off his feet.”

“Now be nice, or next time my monk will die on you and you’ll get to see how it feels,” Bilbo said tartly, but in truth his tears were dried and that horrible weight in his heart at the sight of Thorin bleeding out on the ground was lifting. He really would have to swing by the cast cabin later to compliment them on the makeup work. Thorin’s wounds had been uncomfortably realistic.

“Come on,” Thorin said, giving Bilbo a firm kiss of his own, and a second on his forehead for good measure, “The rest of the guild is waiting, and Dwalin might be done beating seven kinds of hell out of Fíli for making him cry like that in front of everyone.” 

“Fine,” Bilbo sighed, scrubbing one last time under his eyes. “How do I look? Like a ragged mess, I imagine.” 

“Like my ragged mess,” Thorin said, squeezing Bilbo around the shoulder before they set off to find the rest of the company of the late Thorin Oakenshield.


	16. A Suitable Weapon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> anonymoussong prompted: That great modern!AU with Thorin’s nokia phone please <3 Or Bilbo and Thorin exploring Erebor after the BotFA/them finding old, dusty things of Thorin’s in Erebor uwu

"This looks like a child’s room," Bilbo observed as they wandered into the next room. Thorin tended to be silent on these little trips around the city as they assessed the damage, allowing Bilbo to make his own judgements unless asked a direct question. For the most part, Bilbo said little as well, the duty too solemn to be clouded by words, and he could see the effect the destruction had on Thorin, but of course his dwarf was too stubborn to leave the task to anyone else. So Bilbo came with him, offering support and the occasional quip to lift his spirits. He had spoken without really meaning too, but nudging at the dust with his toe unearthed a wooden sword, not unlike the one he had as a child. 

"Indeed. This was our nursery," Thorin said from the doorway. Bilbo bent and lifted the sword and was examining it. He stilled upon hearing Thorin’s words and Thorin seemed to notice this, tilting his head to the side. "Is that so shocking to you?"

"More the idea that you were ever born at all," Bilbo said dryly, before the mood could become too dour. "I thought you just sprung out of the ground, fully armored and grouchy."

"Grouchy?" Thorin said, walking forward. He plucked the sword from Bilbo’s hand, more like a dagger in his grip, and pointed it idly at Bilbo. "We may have at last found a weapon that fits you, Master Burglar." 

Bilbo rolled his eyes. “I’m sure my letter opener will suffice,” he said, and snatched it back from Thorin’s unresisting hand. Thorin smirked preparing to turn back to the door when he suddenly jumped, clutching his backside and letting out an indignant squawk. He glanced back to see Bilbo with a smirk of his own, and the sword gripped like a paddle. 

"A weapon that fits me, indeed," Bilbo snorted, and strode past him.


	17. When

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> darkfire75 prompted: In DoS they seem a lot closer, so maybe some fluff of them talking and opening up to each other since that hug on the carrock?

It happens in dribs and drabs, but whatever wall that had separated them since their less-than-ideal first impressions at Bag End had come down since they escaped the Goblin Tunnels. 

If you had asked Bilbo, he may have laughed a bit sheepishly and rubbed the back of his neck as he tried to guess at how that had happened. He didn’t know what came over him when he saw that orc towering above Thorin, but no doubt something about flinging himself at the thing with his letter-opener drawn and into the jaws of almost certain death had appealed to dwarvish sensibilities, which could be the only explanation for Thorin’s sudden respect and regard.

(Though of course, Thorin could not tell him of said regard without first scaring the daylights out of him with his scolding before his equally bewildering passions led him to embrace Bilbo in a manner that left the poor hobbit flushed, confused, and with the first burnings of what felt like indigestion or perhaps heartburn inside him.)

For Thorin there was no such indecision. At times he may stare at the horizon, or more often of late at their burglar unbeknownst to the hobbit, as he tried to better understand what had happened, and how he had been so blind before. But his silent ponderings were only upon  _how_  he had earned such unexpected loyalty from one who owed them nothing, who was owed nothing in return. And he wondered at  _why_ , why had Bilbo come back when he had faced only scorn and mockery in their company?

But  _when?_  That he knew. It was in the moment when a stranger offered more than allies ever had, when this puzzling and mercurial creature had looked Thorin in the eye and offered him more kindness than he had come to expect from any but his closest kin. Defending him with sword and body in the aftermath was a noble gesture that would only have deepened his shame and a growing, helpless sense of fascination (for what else could it be?).

Except-- and he had not confessed this to anyone-- he in truth did not _remember_ much of what had transpired there and had only learned the extent of Bilbo’s heroism (or infuriating attempt at suicide, as Thorin would have grumbled to himself, were his heart not in his throat and cold sweat gathering at his palms every time he recalled how very close and frankly how very  _inevitable_  Bilbo’s death had seemed in the brief flash before unconsciousness took him) later around the camp fire when Kíli recreated the tale in grandiose terms, wide gestures, capped off with a baffling wink in Thorin’s direction at the end.

While they may not have agreed on  _when_  it happened, there was no doubt that it had, whatever it was. The distance between them closed as they walked the road to the East, so they were shoulder to shoulder, heads often as not bowed in close conversation as with the loss of that wall of distance there was also lost a wall of silence. Speaking of fireflies, and gardens, the road before them, and the road home, and often as not when the other was not looking there would be a glance of fondness, of puzzlement, a glimmer of a gentle disbelief quickly masked before he turned back, and at that point neither could name it.

(The Company could not have cared less about when, or how, or why, or any of that prissy nonsense— _oh hush, Dwalin, you have no romance in your soul_ —because if they didn’t smarten up soon then certain dwarves could not be held accountable for banging their heads together, if only to put an end to the moping looks— _Uncle really does know how to mope_ —and some dwarves who would remain nameless were going to lose a lot of money—Y _es, thank you Nori, no need to rub it in_.)


	18. A Life More Ordinary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drakyrna prompted: Bagginshield. NoDragon!AU. Thorin, second son of Thrain and his betrothed Bilbo Baggins.

Thorin was 195 and still second in line for the throne when Bilbo Baggins came to Erebor.

In truth, the life of a prince was dull, especially when he was not the crown prince. He may spend his days hunting, and earn some small renown driving orcs from their northern borders or aiding their allies in the Greenwood with the spider infestation, but though Thrain may become King any day now with Thror’s advanced age, Thorin could still expect to be gray before the responsibility of ruling Erebor fell on his shoulders. 

Unlike other dwarves, he could not venture far afield, or travel for long trade missions, and so he made a point of volunteering for any audience with strangers that the dignity of a prince could allow. His expression may have been stoic, but he listened hungrily, avidly for any news of the outside world beyond the Iron Hills, Dale, and the Greenwood, those realms that diplomatic missions allowed him. 

Even if he had, nothing could have prepared him for Bilbo Baggins.

First of all, the dwarves of Erebor hardly knew what a hobbit was. The dwarves of Ered Luin had some idea, and had been their frequent trade partner before the orcs coming down from Khazad-dum had driven the Shire-folk (as they called them in the Blue Mountains) from their lands, killing many. Thror had often spoken of launching a campaign to reclaim Khazad-dum, but the administrative burden of running Erebor always pushed the endeavor back to the next year, and it seemed the hobbits were a victim of this neglect.

Bilbo was… indescribable. An adventurer from a young age, encouraged by his mother to master many languages and wander the long roads of Middle Earth, he had seen things and met people that were only legends to Thorin. The Elves of Lothlorien, the were-worms of the distant south, the horse lords of the plains of Rohan… Bilbo had barely scratched the surface as he made his introductions to the king, bowing low and presenting a pearl that he said came from the coasts of distant Harad, the one jewel that would not grow naturally within the earth, he had said as he gifted it to Thorin’s grandfather. 

The court had been charmed by the hobbit’s words, and impressed by his gift, for rarely did the other races view the dwarven love of beautiful objects with anything less than disdain. Yet Bilbo presented the pearl freely, along with his promise to serve as a storyteller in Erebor to earn his keep, so long as he may be given free run of their library. It seemed he made his living collecting the histories of Middle Earth and putting them to writing, a hobby turned profession with the loss of his family’s wealth. The dwarves of Erebor enthusiastically agreed, for they loved songs and tales nearly as much as their art, and Thorin was quick to volunteer to escort Bilbo to his quarters. 

They fell to talking along the way, Thorin asking questions of what Bilbo had seen and making only a small attempt not to appear the breathless youth that he felt himself to be in the presence of the adventurer. Bilbo was indulgent, indeed he seemed delighted to have so eager an audience, and invited Thorin to take supper with him as they continued talking long into the night. 

It became something of a habit from that point on, that once done with his duties and Bilbo wrapping up a day spent in the library they would reunite in the hobbit’s quarters, heads bent close together as they regaled one another with the details of their day, and it was not long before that space grew closer, and as if of the same mind they leaned in together one night at the same time, lips meeting at first as if by accident, and then with intent.

That night Bilbo confessed that the library of Erebor was indeed much larger than he had expected, large enough that he might happily spend the rest of his days there, or nearby, taking Thorin with him on what travels he may to see a world that seemed so much more vibrant and desirable, for the fact it had Bilbo in it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is all of the drabbles for now! More to be added in the future as I write them over on Tumblr. (URL: Avelera) Until then, marking this as complete though you are welcome to subscribe for the next round, I usually write 3 or 4 at a time and post them all at once.


	19. Sick Days

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> darkfire75 prompted: Maybe Thorin catches a cold/flu and Bilbo has to take care of him on top of keeping Erebor running?

Bilbo loved his husband, but even he had to admit that towards most people Thorin’s default setting was Grouchy Bastard (for both of them, if he were honest), and catching a cold had done nothing to improve his disposition.

The cold seemed to have arrived with the delegation of fishermen up from the newly rebuilt Lake-town, and then somehow jumped species. Bilbo was luckily immune, but the night after the first meeting Thorin fell asleep sniffling (even as he tried very pointedly to pretend he did not) and the next day’s meeting was… alright— Bilbo felt quite terrible to even think it—hysterical. 

“The price you’re— _ah_ —proposing is s-simply— _ahah_ —unaccepta— _ACHOO_!” Thorin seized up as the sneeze rocked his body, scattering the papers in front of him in every direction and he fell back with an oath, rubbing a handerkerchief Bilbo had leant him (his one concession to the cold) over his nose as he glared at the scattered papers. Whatever he meant to say to recover his dignity was lost in a sneezing fit that went on for several minutes as the delegates looked to one another and Thorin finally stopped, red-faced and furious. 

“Perhaps we should adjourn for the day?” Bilbo said delicately. 

“There’s no need,” Thorin snapped, or tried to when another fit wracked him. And so they dragged through the rest of the meeting, periodically interrupted as Thorin made a sterling attempt to turn himself inside-out with sneezing, and once adjourned stomped back to their shared quarters. 

That night proved that mere sneezing would not be the worst of the illness. Bilbo stared grimly at the ceiling as Thorin snored open-mouthed beside him on the bed, and Thorin never snored. It made him quite singular amongst the dwarves, and was more or les a requirement of their continued good relations. With a sigh he turned over, idly rubbing his hand over Thorin’s bare back until he managed to drift off despite the cacophony. 

“I’m canceling your meetings,” Bilbo announced, taking Thorin’s tunic from his shaking hands. The dwarf shivered and sweated by turns, but still managed a glare.

“That is not your decision,” Thorin attempted, but coughing had joined sneezing in the repertoire of suffering and once the storm had passed he looked up to see Bilbo standing in front of the door with an eyebrow raise. 

“Then by all means, spread the plague to the rest of the mountain,” Bilbo said. “But at this rate I will be surprised if you can get your boots on, much less negotiate with the fishermen.” 

Thorin’s glare intensified, but a bout of shivering wracked him so hard that he did indeed struggle with his boots, and eventually collapse with an angry sigh, hunched over on the side of the bed with a hand to his forehead. 

“Right, you’re not going anywhere. The mountain can run itself for a few days,” Bilbo said.

In truth, he need not have bothered. The cold had struck most of the dwarves and Men, and while resulting in little more than a few days of shivering ague, further negotiations were impossible. And so Bilbo enjoyed a few days of well-earned privacy with Thorin, even if it was not under the most ideal circumstances. 

Hot water bottles, piled blankets and chicken broth were hardly the stuff of romance, but he got more reading done than he had in a while, and even his grouchy heart could do little against the sight of Thorin snuffling pathetically with his head in Bilbo’s lap while he stroked his fingers through the dwarf’s hair. 


	20. Cake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> mirkwoodquene prompted: Thorin attempts to bake something as a courting/birthday gift but fails miserably

Thorin could not help but notice a brief flicker of disappointment on Bilbo’s face on the night of their wedding feast. He looked about, seeking the source and found himself puzzled. Food there was in spades: endless supplies of meat, dwarven breads, and even vegetables as a concession to Bilbo and their elven guests. Wine, mead, and beer flowed endlessly, and the cooks had just moved on to the sweets portion of the meal with honeyed cakes, pastries, and candied fruits brought in from Dale. The look was brief, but Thorin considered himself adept at reading Bilbo’s mercurial expressions, and when he raised a questioning eyebrow at Bilbo, the hobbit shrugged.

“We forgot the wedding cake,” Bilbo said, when Thorin’s level gaze made it clear he had caught the look and would not let the matter drop so easily.

“There are cakes enough here, I should think,” Thorin observed, but not harshly. Clearly Bilbo had something else in mind.

“A special cake, for the wedding. Usually white, with a few levels… really my dear, it’s nothing,” he said quickly, catching Thorin’s look of dismay. “It would have been my responsibility, but I confess I completely forgot in all the excitement that dwarves may not have the same custom.”

Still, even the news of this oversight could not dampen the spirits of the evening, and a few days later once Thorin’s hangover had faded he recalled the conversation and set to work.

The results were…vaguely cake-shaped. A sort of lopsided squared pyramid dribbled with watery icing greeted Bilbo’s stupefied gaze after they took their evening meal together in their quarters, and he looked between it and Thorin’s brooding expression as he gazed upon the results of his day. 

“Is that what I think it is?” Bilbo said. The cake was burnt at the corners and in the places not covered by the icing, which were many. Thorin’s mouth thinned to a line and he nodded. 

“You know you really didn’t have to do that,” Bilbo said, a smile twitching at the corner of his lips. 

“You wished for a wedding cake,” Thorin said simply. Then he looked back to the results of that attempt. “Though I would not stake your life on how edible this may be.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Bilbo said. “It does have its uses for one part of the tradition.” He took up the knife and cut into the center, which was slightly runny, Thorin noted with some irritation when suddenly Bilbo took the slice in hand and smashed it into Thorin’s mouth.

Thorin choked, coughing and spitting out the cake, which was tasted as bad as it looked, managing to be both too sweet and somehow salty at the same time, and when he looked up Bilbo was doubled over with laughter. Thorin gaped with outrage, frosting clinging to his beard.

“I have been waiting to do that since you proposed,” Bilbo smirked and leaned in for a kiss, playfully licking a stripe of the frosting off Thorin’s cheek, which was vengeance enough as Bilbo too began coughing and sputtering at the taste. 


	21. Mr. Thorin Baggins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> astynomi prompted: Your post about names made me think: What about the Thorin Baggins trope XD Bilbo introducing Thorin as ‘king under the mountain’ or whatever & Thorin feeling wounded because he knows hobbits don’t care for that?

Almost as soon as they returned to the Shire, the whispers began. Bilbo didn’t know why he was surprised, frankly they probably started before he and Thorin arrived, riding the invisible currents of Hobbiton gossip that ran swifter than any raven. Dwarves were not so uncommon a sight there, but there were none _living_ in Hobbiton, goodness no, and those who stayed more than the time it took to water their ponies and do a bit of trading were generally minor craftsmen.

Thorin did not seem to notice, and it was to his credit that he was genuinely lovely, and it certainly made Bilbo’s job easier. A few pointed looks whenever any whispers began were usually enough, and before long mothers were no longer herding their children away when Thorin walked by. It was utterly foolish in the first place, Thorin was wonderful with children in his own quiet way, listening solemnly to their questions about the dragon, and had he fought many, and could they touch his beard? Once he began to offer piggy-back rides, so much higher up than any hobbit could offer, there was very little to stop his rise to overnight celebrity status.

Still, there were the difficult factions, there always were. The Sackville-Baggins formed a nucleus of disapproval around which gathered certain disgruntled Boffins and Bolgers, all of whom were so very _concerned_ and _scandalized_ about the great rough dwarf coming to live in their peaceful town. You know what they said about dwarves, after all.

(Thorin did not, and tried on numerous occasions to ask what exactly it _was_ they said about dwarves, with Bilbo only shooing him off.)

(Bilbo did know what they said about dwarves, but that anyone could indulge in such filthy rumors and still claim respectability was beyond him.)

It all came rather to a head, which is to say that Bilbo lost his temper, at Otho’s birthday that year. They were obliged to go, if only because to do otherwise with so close a relative was a formal declaration of war, but they did not need to stay long. It did not stop him from overhearing the nastiness though.

“I hear they live in holes in the ground under those mountains. And not proper ones at all! Nasty, sandy dark ones, so deep underground there’s no sunlight at all!”

“I hear they can be quite savage. All that armor, and those furs? It’s barbaric.”

“Excuse me,” Bilbo interrupted, appearing at the edge of the group like a vengeful specter with a deceptively pleasant smile. “I could not help but overhear you talking about dwarves. Now, I have some experience with them, as you may know, and thought I could clear up any confusion.” He looked to each in turn, frankly daring one to take up his offer. Thankfully, someone bit.

“Well, it’s only that they’re really not our kind of people, are they, Mr. Bilbo?” A certain Proudfoot cousin of his piped in, and Bilbo had always thought him a rather dim one which only made this easier. “Beggin’ your pardon of course, seeing as you took up with one, but they’re rather common, don’t you think? All concerned with trading and mining, I heard they don’t even have elevensies!”

“So glad you asked, Olo,” Bilbo said, with perhaps a bit more venom than polite company could excuse. “In fact, there’s very little that is common about Thorin at all. I’m sorry, that is who we were talking about, wasn’t it? If you had bothered to speak with him instead of looking down your noses, you may know he’s from a lineage that’s quite a bit longer than the Shire has existed, speaks and write in several languages, and, incidentally, is a king. Oh, did we not mention that? Yes, indeed, he’s a king, and the only reason we may not brought it up sooner is because unlike others he has the _manners_ not to go putting on airs or expecting any special treatment, for all the fact he could call upon an army for every slight and missed invitation to tea, _Lobelia_ ,” he added, shooting his heretofore silent cousin-in-law a glare. “For that matter—”

“Bilbo.” A low voice rumbled close to his ear and Bilbo straightened. He did not know when he had begun to lean forward, jabbing his finger at the assorted hobbits as if it were a dagger. He turned to see Thorin at the edge of the group, over a head taller than most there, and the looming presence caused some of the hobbits to very gratifyingly rock back on their heels. But there was no menace about Thorin, and Bilbo would have known what that looked like. He had that still, calm expression which he tended to assume when cutting other people off from singing his praises, and if Bilbo knew his husband at all, he was quite certain that Thorin had overheard his tirade and but for a long life of concealing his emotions behind staid dignity, would probably be blushing furiously.

“I would certainly be happy to discuss my people with any who are interested,” Thorin said. “To start, that there are seven clans, and so it is understandable that you may have differing views. My own are the Longbeards, of whom I was indeed king.” The group had gone quite silent, many eyes widening at this admission, not the least of which was Lobelia who seemed to have finally connected ‘tunnels overflowing with gold’ and ‘dwarf king’ in her mind and come to the appropriate conclusion.

“Err, you were a _king_?” Olo said. “Why didn’t you say so before?”

“Because it would have been in poor taste, as I had already given up the title to take on a new one,” Thorin said. There were some nods around the circle, if hobbits respected anything it was modesty, especially if it could be subtly shed at just the right moment to win a resounding victory over a neighbor, and some in the group were now looking between the Sackville-Baggins and Bilbo, realizing they had a prime viewing location to a battle that would be the juiciest town gossip for months to come. She too seemed suddenly aware of this, and the fact that Thorin’s quiet, inexorable words were about to put her on the losing side.

“Oh come now,” Lobelia scoffed. “It’s clear he’s lying!”

If anger could convey the power of flight, Bilbo would have been levitating several inches off the ground at that point, but Thorin put a broad hand on his shoulder.

“Madame, I am Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thrór, King under the Mountain and a dwarf lord of the Line of Durin, which stretches unbroken to the creation of Arda itself. That I have suspended the use of such titles is so that I could take another one, newer perhaps, but just as dear to my heart, of Master Thorin Baggins, husband to Bilbo Baggins of Bag End, and I find it a worthy trade.”

There was a smattering of applause at the back, it seemed they had gathered an audience, and Thorin looked up in surprise at the unexpected adulation. Bilbo did not, as he was currently staring pointedly at his feet, feeling as if his face had caught on fire, even as he felt fairly certain his heart was so light it would soon fly away.

“Hear, hear, very well said!” spoke, of all people, Otho himself. The ale had ben flowing freely that night, and he was pink-cheeked and clearly in a sanguine humor. “Come now, Lobelia dear, there’s not much more you can say to that. He seems a decent sort, and it’s not as if they’ll be having any heirs. No need to intrude further on the lovebirds. Ta, Bilbo!” Otho said, tottering off and wandering back towards the rest of the party. The rest of their constituents seem to be in agreement, slinking away with the knowledge that this battle at least was lost, and they were a smaller group for it, for there was nothing hobbits like better than so resounding endorsement of their kind by an outsider. Those who had switched sides, or indeed had already been there, patted Thorin on the shoulder and an encouraging nod to Bilbo as they broke away and scattered back to their merriment, and before long the two of them were left in peace once more.

“You know, we should really look into adopting an heir,” Bilbo mused, once his blush had died enough for him to look up again, though his voice did squeak a bit.

“’There must always be a Baggins in Bag End?’” Thorin quoted dryly, an argument used many times by the Sackville branch, when they made their case at taking it for themselves.

“Indeed,” Bilbo said, and a quick glance around showed that they were alone, at least no one was paying attention, and he rose on his tiptoes to deposit a kiss on Thorin’s cheek. “I just never suspected that there would be two.”


	22. Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> evil-bones-mccoy prompted: “THEY ONLY KNEW EACH OTHER FOR SEVEN MONTHS. i’d like to see you happyify that.” for my perverse prompt challenge of giving happy fills to sad prompts and vice versa :3 So I promise this one is happy.

It had only been seven months from the day they met to where Bilbo sat now. He tried to remember this as he choked on the lump in his throat, his face still hot from earlier tears. He tried not to look at the gathered dwarves on the edge of the battlefield, or the still form of Azog on the ice. Only seven months, it was frankly scandalous to be seen so worked up.

He reminded the dwarves of this again as he said his goodbyes, admonishing them to wipe those frowns off their faces. After all, seven months was not that long a time to know someone. Certainly it was not long enough to change your life for them. It was not as if they were family, after all, he reminded himself, wiping his sleeve quickly over his eyes as he turned away. He reminded himself that he longed for his home, even if at that moment what he needed most of all was his handkerchief.

Seven months was, however, quite a long time to be away from one’s home without explanation. He could only imagine the state of his garden in that time, and how much work would be cut out for him in bringing it back to its prize-winning state. This would take months of its own, he thought. Until he saw the crowds outside his door trampling over his flowers and tomato patch without even a by-your-leave, and realized with rising baffled irritation that it would take much longer than that.

The other hobbits gossiped, as was their way. It was as natural to their state as song is to birds. Seven months, they whispered behind their hands, was a very short time for a perfectly respectable Baggins to go wild. Nowadays he talked to the dwarves that passed by on the road, told outlandish and clearly impossible stories to the children, and often as not was too busy scribbling in that book of his to even realize he had missed an invitation to tea.

It took seven months for Master Baggins to travel Erebor, and another seven for him to travel back, but only one more for him to realize he must have gotten quite lost along the way, because this was not his home anymore.

It took one additional month after that to put his affairs in order, leave Bag End to his newlywed cousins, and set back out onto the road to the East.  Seven months gone, the hobbits of the Shire muttered, and not even seven months back before he was off again, and good riddance said some who had still not forgiven him for leaving his home to Drogo and Primula.

The others hoped he found whatever he was looking for.

It was amazing how little time it took to travel when there were no trolls or goblins along the way. Some of that time was made up for by a shorter stay in Rivendell, and the quick escort across Mirkwood, slowed only by an evening of some truly excellent wine with the Elvenking. Still, Bilbo did not linger as long as he might have wished, his heart tugging him back to Erebor like a fish on a line. He remembered blank dwarven expressions when he said his goodbyes, stern lips stoically closed as if to hold back an entreaty. 

Bilbo had been late running out his door that day in April, now over a year ago. So perhaps the dwarves would be forgiving, or least understanding, that he was so late in catching up to them again.  He could be a bit slow on the uptake at times, especially when it came to leaving his home behind.

It was, coincidentally, once again 11 o clock in the morning when he entered the doors of Erebor. He’d spent the night in Dale at Bard’s insistence, at the reminder that the next day was likely to be an emotional one, so it would do him good to spend an evening with more casual friends in order to fortify himself. That morning there had been a lavish breakfast, followed by a comfortable walk from the city of Dale to the gates of Erebor. The fields between were in full bloom now, grass and flowers springing up all over the once desolate landscape.

Seven months, and seven again, then a handful more had done wonders for cleaning the dragon stench from Erebor. The city shone, such that Bilbo could only marvel at it as he was escorted by the guards to meet the king. He was a trifle late to his appointment, as usual, but it seemed that was forgiven, indeed convenient, as the king’s meeting had run over as well, and only now did he have the time to meet his guest. 

Bilbo could say, however, that he had not expected this meeting to be in private, or for the guards to step away, closing the door behind them. The king had just removed his crown, and was massaging at his temples as he straightened, and when he turned his eyes grew wide.

“Bilbo,” Thorin breathed, and really, that was all that needed to be said.

Some time later they sat side by side on a low couch in Thorin’s quarters. Bilbo leaned his head against Thorin’s shoulder, while Thorin’s broad thumb ran idly back and forth over the hobbit’s knuckles.

“Many called me foolish,” Thorin murmured, his voice low and quiet in Bilbo’s ears. “For hoping you would come back. And for giving away such a gift after so short a time. It was only seven months after all.” He lifted Bilbo’s hand, pressing a kiss to the back of it, looking at it after as if still unable to believe it was there. “For my people, a courtship may run for seven years before such gifts are exchanged.”

“Oh, we’re very much the same in the Shire,” Bilbo agreed. “Not a few of them thought I was  quite mad, leaving everything to come running back here, and for what? It’s not as if we knew each other that long.”

Thorin straightened, looking over at Bilbo with concern. “Do you fear you have made a mistake?”

“Of course,” Bilbo said matter-of-factly, and felt Thorin jolt beneath his hand. He rolled his eyes, clasping his other hand around Thorin’s and turning him so they were looking one another in the eye. “Seven months there, seven months back again, and nearly another year before I saw you once more? At this point we’ve spent more time apart than together and I,” he leaned in, pressing a quick peck to Thorin’s lips, “would very much like to fix that.”


	23. Remission

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> darkfire75 prompted: Maybe…Bilbo and Thorin adjusting to life in Erebor after the battle.
> 
> Since Thorin living and them adjusting to life together in Erebor is usually a happy prompt, I’m taking this in the sad direction (no character death though, don’t worry). I mean…. Burning Low fits this, but let’s do another take, shall we? Asking me for a sad take on this theme is like throwing a 100 tennis balls at a dog – I’m overjoyed and overwhelmed to the point where I just stared for awhile gleefully contemplating which take to go with. To that end, this also fulfills aneryk‘s prompt.

Thorin was a warm, bandage-swathed weight at Bilbo’s side when he awoke, and curled gently around his lover, trailing kisses down the back of Thorin’s neck as much for his own benefit as to awaken his dwarf. Bilbo was still careful around the bandages, and they had chosen not to further consummate their relationship until Thorin was fully healed (and for Bilbo’s sake until he could think of the possibility without blushing to the tips of his pointed ears). But this was a special day for which neither would want to be late.

Oin and Tauriel together, for both had been instrumental in saving the lives of Thorin and his nephews, had agreed that Thorin could finally rise from his sickbed that day. Not to rule of course, but to see and be seen by his subjects, witness the repairs made to Erebor under Dain’s regency, and begin the long, slow process of strengthening muscles weakened by his long bed rest. Bilbo looked forward to it as well, as he spent very little time outside of Thorin’s quarters while the dwarf was awake, and relished the thought of walking the city once again with Thorin at his side, and this time without the sense of doom that had trailed with them the last time they’d had such an opportunity.

Guards were a necessary evil, for they were useful as much as medical attendants as to guard, sent to keep an eye on Thorin should the exertion prove too strenuous. Even with the audience, Bilbo and Thorin enjoyed the closest thing to a casual stroll together they had experienced in… well, perhaps ever. The staccato tap of Thorin’s crutch serving as a counterpoint to their murmured conversation, which included Bilbo’s exclamations over the wonders of the city that left Thorin smiling softly, the tips of his ears pink. First there were the royal quarters, then the hall of kings, the archives with walls upon walls of books that had been left untouched by Smaug, what with paper being beneath his notice. Their tour was to end at the throne room, where Thorin would hold a brief audience to assure the dwarves of Erebor of his health before retiring once more to his rest.  

Their heads were inclined in close conversation, Bilbo laughing softly at an off-hand comment by Thorin, when he paused at the end of the long platform leading up to the throne. The dwarves had restored it over the course of Thorin’s convalescence, the missing hunks of stone replaced, and with it, the Arkenstone.

Bilbo gaped, caught up in the sight of the jewel, the beauty of it once returned to its proper place, glimmering like a star to cast its benediction over the halls of the city. So he did not hear Thorin’s sharp intake of breath, a punched-out gasp as if he had taken a blow to the stomach. Bilbo only moved when he saw the movement out of the corner of his vision, time slowing as he turned to see Thorin falling, landing hard on his knees.

Time sped up again, Bilbo’s heart loud in his own ears as he knelt down next to Thorin, face to face. Thorin was shivering, pale faced, his breath escaping in ragged gasps and when he looked up the pupils in his blue eyes had narrowed to pinpoints. Then his gaze dropped again as a shudder wracked him and his hands came up to fist in his hair, his head shaking side to side.

“No, no, no, no…” Thorin panted, a steady stream of hoarse denial until Bilbo, unsure what else to do, untangled those broad fingers from Thorin’s hair, clasing them together as he searched Thorin’s face and fear bubbled up inside him.

“Thorin, Thorin, what’s wrong? Is it your wounds? Thorin, are you all right?” Bilbo said under his breath, hunching in closer to shield Thorin from the view of the other dwarves, who milled about in confusion, those who were not craning their necks for a better view of their fallen king.

“It’s still here,” Thorin said. His voice cracked over the words as if on the edge of tears. “Bilbo, it’s still here, in my mind. I can feel it, I can feel it coming like a storm…” A chill washed through Bilbo, and he almost did not need for Thorin to look up then, eyes wide and terror stricken as he breathed.

“The dragon sickness.”


	24. Mawwiage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> freakinamask prompted: “For your bagginshield prompt, sad prompt, Thorin and Bilbo are all in love and such but Thorin has to marry a dwarf to continue the line of durin (because Fili and Kili died in BotFA) and Bilbo has to go back to the shire alone because he technically did betray Thorin and dwarf politics (please ignore how implausible this whole scenario is)”
> 
> I’m gonna fight you on the nephew death. They’re alive, just uninterested in Erebor because their experiences there sucked. Since this is a “sad” prompt, you can bet your ass I’m giving it the happiest, fluffiest, most ridiculous answer I can manage. Brace yourselves :P

Much that was good came of reclaiming Erebor. The north was once again secured, Smaug was dead, Dale in the process of being rebuilt, and soon wealth would flow back to the region, which was strengthened and fortified by new alliances. The King under the Mountain had come in to his own, the bells all tolled in gladness, etcetera and so on.

It had also come with its annoyances. Like politics, and taxes, and the monstrous offspring of both those ills: bureaucrats.

“So you will see,” a stuffy, self-important dwarf newly arrived from Ered Luin proclaimed in a nasal voice, “that the King under the Mountain has no  _choice_  but to take a wife and continue the exalted line of Durin.”

“Is it exalted now?” Thorin murmured in Bilbo’s ear. “Just a moment ago I thought we were a line of wastrels and spendthrifts who refused to take their responsibilities seriously.” His tone was amused when referring to the official’s earlier speech regarding Fíli, Kíli, and their abdication from the ruling line of Erebor. The two had cited dragon sickness, injuries, and near death amongst other aspects of the whole unpleasant package that left both without the slightest interest in taking on their great-grandfather’s legacy.

But Bilbo hardly heard him, for at the word ‘wife’ he had gone very pale, and did not share one jot in Thorin’s good humor and apparent blasé attitude towards the speech. What if the dwarf was right? Thorin was still in his prime, and goodness (as well as Bilbo, intimately) knew he was handsome. What was to stop him from settling down with a family of his own, except his current dalliance with Bilbo? Certainly they were happy together, but there was propriety to consider, responsibilities. 

The thought gnawed on him the rest of the evening, such that he hardly tasted his food. Thorin shot curious glances at Bilbo for at his apparent lack of appetite, and by the end of the night the hobbit had worked himself into such a state that he curled up exhausted in their shared bed, already asleep before Thorin joined him.

The next day dawned with Bilbo exhausted and irritable, dark circles standing out under his eyes and his appetite once again lost to a twisting, anxious feeling in his belly that he had not felt in months. Not since the first days of Thorin’s recovery, when it had still been uncertain when or if he would pull through from his injuries. Both bouts of nerves held within them the same seed: the thought of losing Thorin, and though Bilbo reminded himself that he must not be ridiculous, he had come too close to losing his dwarf to ever question again whether or not his feelings for Thorin were true. Practical, though? He questioned that every day, especially now.

The next day the blowhard continued, rattling off a long list of benefits should Thorin marry, attached with a list of possible suitors which each brought with them their own recommendations. All the while Bilbo sank further into his seat, resigning himself to an empty belly and further sleepless nights as he heard some truly excellent arguments for why Thorin should cast him aside in favor of some buxom Firebeard beauty somewhere, and could not fathom why Thorin looked so calm throughout all of it. 

Perhaps Thorin was considering the argument? But then, he was not wearing his “considering” face, which often looked like his “chewing rocks” face. Indeed Thorin seemed entirely unperturbed, and rose to his feet an hour in, when the official finally stopped talking.

“Thank you, Skirfir, your words, as ever, have been… enlightening,” Thorin said in a measured tone, arching an eyebrow at the gray-bearded dwarf. “Since I am far too young and inexperienced a dwarf to know my own mind on this matter, I thought to defer instead to my most trusted and wise advisor, Lord Balin, to clarify the matter for you.”

Only then did Bilbo notice that Balin’s normally placid face was nearly as red as his robes, and had he been paying attention earlier instead of looking at his own feet, he would know that this had been the case throughout the speech, and the day before when the topic was first brought up. Balin stood, coughing into his hand to clear his throat.

“Skirfir, your mastery of the Tailor’s Guild is a boon to us all, and your wisdom has often been of use in providing a new perspective in Ered Luin,” Balin began.

Thorin inclined his head to whisper in Bilbo’s ear, “He was one of my chief opponents in Ered Luin, and the first to make the journey here when word came that Erebor was reclaimed. If I have heard him question my fitness to rule once, I have heard it a thousand times, and his rivalry with Balin goes back to the days before the city fell.”

Bilbo looked up in shock at Thorin, and turned back to Balin just in time to see the older dwarf draw in a deep breath.

“But I have never see such a  _flagrant_  display of impiety in my life. How  _dare_  you propose the severing of a love match, in blatant disregard for the laws set down by our Creator, and in a negotiation room no less! I am  _ashamed_  to know you, you horrible example dwarvendom!” Balin thundered.

Bilbo blinked, and beside him Thorin smirked, settling back into his chair and crossing his arms over his chest as Balin went off on one of the most amazing and long-winded tirades Bilbo had ever heard from the dwarf. Bilbo wondered how Balin was still standing and not out of breath, seeming never to stop for air or lower his volume as he gave Skirfir a dressing down that left the guild leader wide-eyed and cowering. More than once reference was made to Mahal, though who that was Bilbo was not entirely sure, and by the end all the other dwarves were nodding agreement and casting horrified glances at Skirfir.

“But… but…” Skirfir said when Balin finally subsided. He looked as stunned as if he had been struck by a hurricane, but still managed to point a shaking finger straight at Bilbo, sputtering. “He’s not even worthy. He is a Halfling, and a thief! He stole the Arkenstone!”

“Impossible.” Thorin stood, speaking for the first time since Balin began, his expression severe.

“He did, everyone knows! You all know that he did,” Skirfir said, appealing to the dwarves around the table. “You cannot allow mere sentiment to intrude upon the law.”

“It is the  _law_  that protects him,” Thorin said, his voice hard enough to crack stone and Bilbo looked at him aghast. “Even if we had not yet spoken our vows, Bilbo was to become my husband, and thus co-owner of all I possess. Under the law _you_ claim to uphold, he cannot steal from me. The Arkenstone is the King’s Jewel. It is our joint property, and thus it was well within Bilbo’s right to take the stone from the treasury, and to use it to barter for our lives against the treachery of the elves. Any who doubt this are calling into question the very laws Mahal set down for our people when he gifted us with life and the capacity for love. Do you call those laws into question, Skirfir?”

A circle was growing around Skirfir, a growing pool of isolation as the other dwarves scooted their seats away, none meeting his eyes as he silently appealed to them. Thorin never looked away, and after a long moment Skirfir shook his head, rendered mute by the tirade.

 

Later Bilbo and Thorin walked the halls back to their quarters, when Bilbo finally got up the courage to bring the matter up again.

“So, there was never any need to worry?” Bilbo asked Thorin tentatively, “About… any of it?” 

Thorin looked at him in surprise. “You were worried? You should have said so I could put your mind at ease,” Thorin said.

Bilbo sighed, puffing out his cheeks, arms swinging slightly at his side as he began to feel rather foolish. “Well… it’s only that the argument for marriage seemed reasonable. You’re still well within your prime, quite handsome, and certainly honorable enough to do the right thing by your people.”

At this, Thorin stopped, looking at Bilbo. “And what honor would there be in casting aside a love match for mere political gain? Skirfir should have his mouth washed out for mentioning such impropriety. I only allowed him to speak because with every word he dug himself deeper. He is a fool, and now I will not have to worry about countering his foolishness, for all have seen him for what he is.”

Bilbo thought about this for a moment. “So, Erebor doesn’t need new heirs?”

Thorin snorted, and began walking again, this time taking Bilbo’s hand as they continued to their quarters. “With all of my cousins? Our inheritance does not just move up and down, Bilbo, but also side to side. Dain is my next of kin should anything happen to me, and then his son, my namesake. Fíli and Kíli had every right to abdicate, and there are a dozen more dwarves of the Line of Durin who can take their place. Balin and Dwalin are on that list, as are Oin and Gloin, in fact, and that’s even if I do not someday choose adoption, as would be my right and one exercised many times in the past.”

“But they would not be your blood,” Bilbo insisted.

“And of what importance is that? If I pick a dwarf to adopt into our line, it will only be one who is worthy, and the Longbeards will be stronger for it. I know at times I am lax in explaining our ways, but I thought even hobbits had the concept of adoption? Is that not how you left Bag End to your cousins?” Thorin said, looking at Bilbo askance.

“Oh, well, of course,” Bilbo said, flustered. So often he assumed that dwarves and hobbits were at odds that the similarities were often more surprising. “And the… theft?”

“As I said, there was no theft. The Arkenstone was always yours as much as it was mine,” Thorin said. They had reached their door, the guards there standing aside to let them both in. “Even if you had chosen to sell it, I could only have brought civil suit against you. My crime was by far the greater for using violence.”

“Oh don’t start that again,” Bilbo said rolling his eyes and closing the door behind them. It had taken months to convince Thorin that, under the circumstances of the illness, his outburst was not only understandable but forgiven. “I only thought—”

He was caught off by the smacking of lips against his own as Thorin ducked down for a bristly kiss. “I think we have spoken enough of politics for the day, and I believe it is my duty as your husband to make up for allowing you to take a fright like that?” Thorin said.

Bilbo sighed, scrubbing the back of his hand over his mouth to remove the excess saliva of that rather sloppy kiss, even if his hand did hide a smile. “If you must. I confess I slept poorly for it last night, so you’ll have to take extra care that I don’t drop off on you.”

“A challenge gladly accepted,” Thorin growled into his ear, and Bilbo barely had time to squawk out a laughing protest as he was scooped up and carried to the bed.


	25. It happened once in a dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> jaimistoryteller prompted: what if during the battle instead of Thorin, Fili & Kili dying, that head injury of Bilbo made him forget them all and now he thinks he is lost in a dream with no escape in sight?
> 
> I misread this with the “forgetting” part, because I was slightly braindead with tiredness. This also somewhat answers simplesignifier’s prompt, “The hit to Bilbo’s head had more serious consequences than anyone could have expected.” 
> 
> A short, humorous fill for two sad prompts :)

“Should we snap him out of it?” Fili said in a hushed whisper. Bilbo was tottering down the halls of the infirmary, smiling. That was really the unsettling part of it. Sure they had seen Bilbo smile before, but they were usually quick, polite smiles, or kind, genuine ones. This… was not that. This grin was wide, beatific, and perhaps a little insane.

“On any other day I would say yes,” Kili murmured, as a grin of his own broadened. “On this one, I’d say let’s give it a few minutes first.”

Thorin was limping down the hallway, still resigned to using a crutch, and at the sight of him, Bilbo lit up, scampering over and draping himself against Thorin’s good side. It was impossible to hear from that distance, but whatever he began crooning in Thorin’s ear made the dwarf bury his face in his free hand, ears gone a furious red.

“Apparently, after that bump on the head, Bilbo is  _completely_  convinced they’re on their honeymoon. He’s been chatting up Thorin all day,” Kili whispered.

“And Thorin hasn’t stopped him?” Fili said, turning to his brother in incredulity.

“Nah. I think he likes it,” Kili smirked. Bilbo was currently making a spirited attempt to wrap himself around Thorin like some sort of creeping vine up an oak tree.

“How long do you think this will last?” Fili said. Kili shrugged.

The answer came the next day, when a hobbit-y scream of utter horror, drawn from the deepest pits of sudden humiliated realization, echoed down the corridor.


	26. Lightning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An Anonymous reader prompted: Thorin is afraid of lightning and thunder (because it sounds like the noises the dragon made when he came) so on those nights Bilbo has to comfort him, and try and convince him to come out from under the bed.
> 
> Some dialogue taken directly from Tolkien, as you will see.

“… A journey from which some of us, or perhaps all of us, may never return,” Thorin finished solemnly, looking to each of the dwarves in question as they gathered around the burglar’s table. The each met his eye, nodding in acknowledgement, understanding the risk they took by joining his cause.

Thorin was about to go on and present the contract to their burglar to sign, when a noise rose up from behind him, a shriek like an overheated boiler rising from the depths of the little hobbit as he stared wide-eyed at Thorin, his hands clamped over his mouth. Thorin sprang to his feet, just in time for Master Baggins to collapse.

“Struck by lightning, struck by lightning!” the hobbit wailed, shaking so hard he looked as if he would fall to pieces before his eyes rolled back in terror and he fainted.

It took some time after to revive him, and Thorin took the task of carrying their burglar to his armchair while they waited for him to awaken. He could not help studying Master Baggins, Bilbo, as he did so, noting the smoothness of his cheeks, his soft fingers free of calluses. A burglar indeed, it seemed difficult to believe and he knew he should be more annoyed at Gandalf dragging such a gentle fellow into his schemes, if not for the odd surge of… something, almost tenderness, Thorin felt as he tucked the quilt over the hobbit and left him to wake in the darkened sitting room.

Later, Thorin leaned against the wall, pipe cupped in his hand as he overheard Gloin and the others discussing what they had just witnessed.

“… It is all very well for Gandalf to talk about this hobbit being fierce, but one shriek like that in a moment of excitement…!” Gloin muttered while the others nodded in agreement. 

Thorin said nothing. Indeed, far better to keep such screams locked within ones heart and behind one’s teeth, where the tramping of dragon’s feet and the thunder of his roar can only echo within, dragging one from sleep, perhaps, but not from silence.

Thorin never asked what it was about lightning that had frightened Bilbo so, why it was where his first thoughts turned at the thought of death. It was many months and trials later before it came up again, bedded down at Beorn’s house when they had only begun to sleep side-by-side.

Thunder rumbled above the thatch roof, shaking the timbers, and Thorin took a long, slow breath, exhaling again. He closed his eyes, resolutely banishing the image of long claws rending stone, white fire bright as lightning splitting the womb-like darkness of the underground city. He still could not prevent the shiver that raced through his form, and could only tighten his jaw against screams he would never allow loose. It would be one of those nights, there was nothing to do but endure it.

Thorin pulled away from where his arm had been draped over Bilbo, relieved to see his beloved still asleep, and turned onto his other side, curling in on himself. After a moment he pulled the blankets up over his head to hide the flash of lightning, the pillow over his ear barely muffled the boom. Each crack and roar of thunder tore through him and his breath came ragged and hoarse, as with eyes open or closed all he saw was white fire, black wings and the steady  _doom, doom, doom_ of the beast’s tread…

Sweat stood out on Thorin’s brow, clammy and cold, and his hands were numb from gripping the sheet, when a weight fell upon his shoulders. Thorin swore, starting nearly out of the bed, only to hear faint words whispered in his ear.

“ _Shhh._ Hush, love, it’s all right. I’m here.” Bilbo curled tighter around him, his body also trembling faintly, jolting at each peal of thunder, but his body was a warm weight against Thorin’s back, soothing him. He would have turned, would have urged Bilbo back to sleep, and to ignore his childish terrors, but soft fingers were threading through Thorin’s hair, brushing it from his face and tracing through the heavy strands.

Thorin’s muscles eased and he sighed, melting under Bilbo’s touch, the thunder a distant rumble as visions of fire receded in his mind. He barely knew when he began to drop off again, until he felt warm lips pressed to his, and heard a softly murmured, “Goodnight,” as Bilbo’s embrace soothed him into deep and dreamless sleep.


	27. When Disaster Strikes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Darkfire75 prompted: sad prompt: Bilbo and Thorin have a major fight one evening and some of the company are witness to it and fear Bilbo will return to the Shire.
> 
> (For a prompt round where sad prompts got happy fills and happy prompts got sad fills, because I am perverse)

It is immediately obvious to the dwarves of the Company that something had gone Terribly Wrong.

The day had been going well, fantastically even. Thorin, still shaky and pale from his sickbed, was crowned in front of thousands of cheering dwarves, Men, and even a few elves who made up the diplomatic mission from the Greenwood. Bilbo sat in a place of honor beside Thorin’s nephews, making a grand if out of place picture in his well-tailored waistcoat and jacket, the mithril shirt gleaming at his collar. A great feast followed, with seemingly endless food and enough wine and beer to keep even Dwalin happy.

Then: disaster. The revels began, dancing, singing, dwarven musicians taking out their instruments to create a great din, and Thorin and Bilbo had slipped into a corner. They tried to be subtle, but there really was no such thing as subtlety for a dwarf king at his own coronation party. Bilbo and Thorin’s heads were inclined in deep conversation, Bilbo staring up into his eyes while Thorin looked down at Bilbo, his face alight with the sort of calm joy that the Company recognized as a regular occurrence when Bilbo was around. Whatever Thorin said, it had caused Bilbo to flush red, his mouth falling open, brow furrowed in confusion, shock, then horror.

Their burglar stormed off, leaving Thorin behind, though he had not gone far, only to the far side of the room, into a tiny alcove hidden from view. There he curled up on himself and put his head in his hands. It did not take an elf to see that he was sobbing.

The dwarves exchanged looks with one another, none daring to intercede. They could only watch helplessly as Bilbo cried as privately as the hall would allow. Thorin stood alone in all his finery, looking at the floor.

“That’s it then,” Ori said mournfully. “He’s finally gone and done it. Bilbo’s definitely going to leave now.”

“Shoulda known it couldn’t last,” Dwalin rumbled. Fili and Kili gave one another stricken, uncomprehending looks. Tauriel beside Kili looked even more uncomprehending, as she was as of yet uninformed on the details of the relationship between the burglar and the king. She looked to each of the dwarves in turn for confirmation, yet none would give it, too wrapped in their own misery at the sight.

Then one by one, as if reaching a mutual agreement, they filled their tankards with beer. Tauriel’s as well, as she had been accepted as an honorary member of the Company. Silently, they toasted to the loss of the burglar in their life. It was not until they were all down to the dregs, some like Bombur and Bifur already crying into their mugs, when Tauriel pointed to Bilbo’s corner.

“Are you sure?” she said. Thorin was standing at the edge of Bilbo’s alcove, and in his hand was a pure white handkerchief, which he handed to Bilbo. Dwarven hearts sunk, for in truth it looked like nothing more than their leader wishing to part in friendship, but Tauriel shook her head, pointing again. “Only, I do not think…”

Bilbo accepted the handkerchief, offering Thorin a watery smile as he dabbed at his eyes. There was another murmured conversation between them. Then Bilbo rose to his feet, and seized Thorin by his richly furred collar.

“Oh no,” Dwalin said, eyes widening. He fought his way to his feet in a panic. “The burglar snapped.”

He had only managed to shove the table out of his way and go two steps, the Company scattering before him, when Bilbo dragged Thorin forward and mashed their lips together in a kiss that showed no signs of ending. It went on… and on, until the other dwarves began to shift uncomfortably, some coughing as they looked away. Thorin’s eyes widened for an instant, and then closed as he reached up to gently cup Bilbo’s face.

“I was just trying to say,” Tauriel said weakly. “That they were both smiling.”

It was only then that Bilbo and Thorin seemed to become aware of their audience, coming up for air long enough for Bilbo to rise on his toes, waving at them. “We’re getting married!” he shouted, his voice nonetheless barely audible over the din of the celebration.

“He said–” Tauriel began.

Dwalin grunted, “Yes, we heard.”


	28. Across the Distant Shores

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo goes seeking Thorin in Valinor, and finds the unexpected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lakritzwolf prompted: Bilbo only went with the elves into the West because he hoped he would find Thorin again. Only to discover once there, that he never will, because for that, he should have died in Middle Earth.

“I think I’m quite ready for another adventure,” Bilbo had said as he boarded the ship to the West, but in his own mind he laughed ruefully to himself. Almost one hundred years later, and he was really still trying to go on the first one all over again.

Hobbits thought little of the afterlife, assuming that-- lacking any special knowledge-- they were destined for the same unknown as were Men. Elves and Dwarves were so certain, feeling their destinies in their souls, knowing the identities of their Makers. The souls of Elves would fly across the seas to rejoin their people in a never-ending cycle, while the Dwarves went to the Halls of their Fathers. It was only natural to assume those halls also resided across the sea, alongside the divine beings that lived there.

Bilbo misses his dwarves, and one dwarf in particular. They’d had so very little time together, often he wonders if he had imagined it. Had he really loved Thorin Oakenshield, only to lose him after less than a year together? Had he really spent a lifetime trying to move on, never quite managing, from a love that was only known in silence, those quiet looks exchanged between them, words hanging in the air while drying blood painted Thorin’s lips, the light faded from his eyes and Bilbo’s life?  

When the ship arrives, the shores of Valinor gleam gem-like on the horizon and Bilbo is at a loss. A spring returns to his step, the aches of his body no longer pain him. But there are no Dwarves there, only lithesome Elves who laugh and embrace one another as they disembark. Galadriel is engulfed by a hoard of her people, her Noldor kin long lost to her. A woman with silver hair flies down the beach to throw her arms around Elrond’s shoulders, kissing every inch of his face.

But there is no one there for him.

No matter, perhaps those halls are merely hidden. Perhaps the dwarves are like statues within them, waiting for the day when horns will sound and call them back to rebuild the world.

Bilbo wanders, taking long walks over the beaches, across golden fields, to the very foot of Taniquetil, where he learns creatures called the Valar abide, like the Lady Elbereth celebrated in Elven poetry. He does not wish to presume to speak to one of those legendary beings, and yet no elf seems to understand why he would question after the dwarves.

A year passes. Frodo recovers, a light shining in his face that is like the grace of the beautiful land itself, as if he has finally come home. Yet Bilbo is restless, has always been restless since that day he ran out his door. He feels as if he has been running ever since, chasing a dark-haired figure that is ever just out of reach.

He is sitting on the shores that day, near the beached ships with their prows of carven swans, when he feels a heavy hand settle upon his shoulder. He turns, and his heart leaps for there is a  _dwarf_  standing there, and Bilbo wonders at the tears that prick the corner of his eyes at so lovely a sight. He leaps to his feet, clasping his hands around the stranger’s.

“Good morning! So lovely to meet you, my good fellow, so lovely! I had feared there were none of you here at all. My goodness, are you a sight for sore eyes!” he says before he realizes he is gushing, his heart filled to overflowing with relief he did not know it was possible to feel.

Yet the dwarf across from him is solemn, silent, only a brief smile flickering over his face at the exuberant greeting. “You are Bilbo Baggins?”

“Indeed, I am, sir, I am! And you are?” Bilbo says eagerly.

“A relation to some… acquaintances of yours. One might say a father to them,” the dwarf says. His hair is a violent shade of red, his skin darkened by sun and ruddy from the forge. His hands are cracked and dry around Bilbo’s. Strong, dwarven hands, a sight that fills Bilbo with a pang of longing. Truly, he loves the grace and beauty of the Elves, but sometimes in a garden of flowers there is no sight as beautiful as hearty, reliable stone. “I have come to ask your intentions towards one of my beloved sons.”

“Intentions?” Bilbo says, taken aback. A question begins prickling at the back of his mind, formless yet nagging. “Pardon my ignorance, but I’m not entirely sure which son we are talking about?”

The dwarf’s lips thin to a line. “Thorin.”

Bilbo’s jaw drops. “Thorin? Good gracious, are you… are you Thráin? I have heard so much about you, but forgive me if I did not recognize you at first. I suppose I expected more family…resemblance…” The dwarf remains silent, and Bilbo is suddenly aware of how small he is compared to the looming presence, even if the size difference is not so much as with elves. Perhaps his joy at the meeting had simply been that of seeing another besides Frodo who was near his own height. He coughs, clearing his throat. “Well, that is, I have missed Thorin very much. Is he here somewhere? I had hoped to see him again.”

“And yet you came to these shores,” the dwarf says gravely. “There are no dwarves here, Master Hobbit, and there will not be until the ending of the world. As it is, I was left with the assumption that you cared nothing for my son, that you would make the journey here of all places. You must understand how that has pained me. He has been waiting a very long time for you, and I am loathe to disappoint him if this is the fate you have chosen for yourself instead.”

“No dwarves here, but what about…?” Bilbo says, trailing off as he looks the dwarf up and down. There is something wrong here. It is not Thorin’s features he sees in this being’s face, but rather a hint of all the dwarves, from Bombur’s hair color to Bofur’s laughter lines, the curling luxuriousness of Gloin’s beard, and Thorin’s proud bearing. “You’re not Thráin, are you?”

The dwarf shakes his head, and even so small a gesture has power behind it, like the world itself shifting in its bones. “My children call me Mahal, and you, Master Baggins, have come very close to shattering the hopes of one of my children. I would know why.”

Bilbo freezes, a vast, formless terror building in his heart, until the dwarf sighs. “I do not say this to terrify you, Ring-Bearer. Speak, and be honest, for no harm will come to you. It is I who will have to be the bearer of bad news.”

 “I… that is… To be quite honest, my lord, I have been searching for Thorin since I arrived. Do—do you know where I might find him? Only I heard the halls of the dwarves were here, that is why I sailed, and yet I cannot… find them…” Bilbo trailed off, for in the middle of his words the the dwarf, Mahal, had begun to smile, eyebrows rising in incredulity and by the end he was laughing, and clapped Bilbo on the shoulder. Bilbo shudders under the impact.

“Truly? You came to the Blessed Lands hoping to find dwarves? You are many thousands of years too early, my son. This is but a way-station for my children, a very brief one before they begin their next life. My dwarves will one day return here at the End of Days, but until that time I encourage them to  _live_. Hundreds of lives, thousands! After each dwarf dies, he is soon born back into the world to start anew.”

“Thorin is gone?” Bilbo feels his heart drop somewhere to the vicinity of his furry feet, and feels a strange, choking feeling welling in his throat.  

“He would be, he  _should_  be, but my son is stubborn and claims he is waiting for a certain child of the kindly West,” Mahal says, looking owlishly at Bilbo in a way that reminds him uncannily of Oin. “Had you died in Middle Earth we might have skipped this step entirely, and you would have met him directly in my halls. I might have set you both on the road of your next life immediately. As it is, this Blessed Land will extend your lifespan, and cut you from the natural cycle.”

“Natural cycle? But I am a hobbit, not a dwarf!” Bilbo says, but Mahal waves him off.

“A technicality. The Valar have not abided by such strict rules since Beren and Luthien. Now, will you come?”

Bilbo hesitated. “May I make some goodbyes first? Only, I would hate to leave Frodo without letting the poor boy know where I’ve gone off to.”

“Master Hobbit,” Mahal said, inclining his head, “Thorin has waited and watched over you for nearly a century, I’m sure he will not mind waiting a little longer, knowing you will be there with him at the end.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I believe I shall end this run of "Acorns and Oakenshields" here, starting a new fic should I ever need to store more drabbles. Thank you for reading, I do hope you enjoyed!

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed these fics, please consider leaving a comment. If you'd like to prompt a story of your own, please come visit me over on Tumblr! 
> 
> Note: Leaving a comment of what you thought makes me far more inclined towards writing up your prompt. Bagginshield only, please, and only in my Tumblr Ask box. Do not post prompts to the comment section.


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